


The Birth of a Nation

by lupisashes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: ANZAC Day, Crack Pairing, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupisashes/pseuds/lupisashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Australia has two birthdays: the 26th January and the 25th April; Anzac Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birth of a Nation

The way the cool breeze runs through his hair reminds him of home, and the boat's irregular rise and tip doesn't make him crook anymore (three months of it has cured him of his sea sickness). His akubra's tapping irregularly against his back and his band aid is falling off (he's sweating like a pig; his shirt's drenched). He's grinning – it seems like he's been doing it since he'd first been told he was needed.

The people greeting him are like specks of dust on a painting when they first catch his eye, but he recognises Egypt – he's seen him in books – and England's scowling face immediately. He waves, beams and shouts at them – can they see him?

The bees in his stomach multiply tenfold as the vessel slows down. He's been waiting months for this; he's stoked about the adventure he'd started the moment he'd left his home's shores and he's been training hard.

Australia's almost bouncing on balls of his feet as the ship docks. Egypt's there to meet him, quiet and helpful, waiting to show Australia to his room. England's still cranky, though he can see it isn't entirely from his choosing to forgo the top half of his uniform. The Englishman knows better than to bring it up.

"When do we start? When are we leaving? Are ya gonna take us on a tour? I want'a see a pyramid!" Bright green eyes run rampantly around – no matter how hard he tries to leave them on his brother.

He takes in the small shops and stalls, admires the colours and the promise of nothingness for miles that he's only seen in the GAFA. There are small mummies, figurines and scarab beetles – he's got to get one of those!

England's shout knocks him out of his admiring, "Stop fidgeting. This isn't a holiday!"

Australia tries, with little success.

The older nation sighs, "You'll be staying here until you're trained properly. Then there will be a brief rehearsal before we set off on our assignment." He huffs and crosses his arms, "So train hard!"

With a grin, Australia agrees, "Will do, mate! But first, is there anywhere I could grab a coldie? I dunno about you, but I'm parched."

He lets out a raucous laugh as England splutters and screeches.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Lemnos is beautiful, Australia thinks, as he tugs the boat – New Zealand's sitting inside, the lousy bludger – onto the beach (it's their third rehearsal and he acts his part like he was born for it). He finds the beach reminds him of home as the sand manages to find its way into his boots and scratches between his toes.

"Australia, you git! Don't get distracted! You still have to scale the beach! You'd get bloody shot if you did this during the real thing!"

He knows. England's bashed his ears with the same yammering over the past eight months (though he'd had more of a thing for stabbing and dismemberment than blowing up into a billion little pieces when they'd been at Egypt's). But he appreciates beauty, and it's definitely present around him, despite the disarray covering the beach – he regrets leaving his budgie-smugglers at home.

England's whistle pierces through the racket, "Faster! Remember you're dodging bullets and shells!"

It's still ringing in his ears when he sits down for tea that night. He's got New Zealand on his left and England on his right. He thanks the Sheila that hands them their plates. She's one of Greece's people, with long legs and dark hair.

"Hope we aren't scarin' away your customers." He says, with a wink and a flirty grin.

She smiles back, "Quite the opposite – we've taken your advice and, well," She gestures to the full restaurant.

Australia can hear England's generous eyebrows rise behind him, "I know. I took a squizz before I came in – ya did an ace job on the sign."

It's when she's gone that England interrogates him – Australia's gotten the impression he thinks he's some kind of larrikin (he'd been impossible since he'd witnessed his groping Egypt - and Australia still believes it isn't entirely his fault; he'd been completely pissed when it had happened - and that biff he'd had with Canada; started in the name of good fun).

He can see New Zealand shaking his dark head as he eats, with a half grin on his face.

England doesn't get far passed, "You said you'd behave!" before France is sweeping in and joining them, brandishing a fancy bottle of plonk.

"Gentlemen! We're going to war tomorrow – Miss! Yes, could I have four glasses? – and I thought a toast was in order. Ah, thank you, madam! May I say you look stunning this evening?"

The girl flushes attractively when France smiles charmingly and winks at her.

Australia chuckles, whilst England rolls his eyes.

"It feels weird holding these things," New Zealand injects before Australia can, as he takes an elegantly shaped (and fragile looking) glass in one large, square hand, "Too fancy, y'know?"

"For you to say that," France replies as he pours everyone a glass wine (it's nothing Australia can rotten with). It's a deep pink colour, like beetroot juice. It smells sweeter though, "It's such a shame. You were obviously raised by England."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

It's an age old chorus, Australia knows, one that can last the night. So he and New Zealand click glasses, gulp down their wine and finish their meals before bidding the two European nations good night (not that they heard them).

"Want'a take a dip with me?" Australia asks as they head out, "Not goin' ta be able to when we head off."

New Zealand's a merry bloke – he laughs like a kookaburra.

They head towards the beach.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Careful; England's shelling the mountains!"

"And Johnny-Turk is bloody shelling _us_! Concentrate, ya bloody nit!"

Australia worries when he starts to sound like England – he has for a long while (he's his own country now; no longer just a minder for England's misfits and convicts). But he doesn't have time to think on it – his troops are falling behind him, there are rifles and shells deafening his ears, rattling his very bones and screams, shattering screams - he's sure they'd chill his very core if he weren't busy dodging bullets – as he stumbles into the trench and comes face to face with Turkey for the first time.

He's nothing like England's painted him. He looks like a normal human: He has two eyes (hidden behind a pristine white mask), two ears, a mouth and nose, just like him and his people. He has two legs, two arms and he barely blinks as he jabs at him, the steel of his bayonet piercing soft flesh – did the Boer people's skin injure so easily? He can't remember…

"Next line!" He shouts, barracking his troops on. He needs the beach. Needs to dig his heels in and _take it._ With blood and sweat and fuck him if he's going to be beat – Turkey isn't the weather and just because it's caused one blue doesn't mean they're going to lose now (Australia doesn't believe in omens).

He slips back into the trench with the next whistle-BOOM of a shell.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The wrong beach... They'd landed on the _wrong fucking beach_.

The map crumples easier than tissue paper in his grip.

"It's alright." England quips soothingly. He takes the crinkled map and smooths it out on the bench in front of him, placing his favourite ships figurines where each of their forces are. Australia watches carefully as England stands the little akubra wearing figure a few centimetres from the bright red 'X' previously marked, "You have an advantage where you are."

He nods, still unsure, but he's got a job to do and if England says they're good, they're good. England has more experience with war. He would know.

Australia eyes the little battleship sitting a few centimetres away, south of the figurine that represents himself.

"How'd France and y'self go at Helles? Did ya beat the shit out'f the Turk?"

England nods, "Of course! We've established camp. France is confident our troops can hold steady. He wants to set up a kitchen as soon as Turkey lessens his attacks." He stares hard and smugly at his and the Frenchman's figures – England's is sporting a British flag, whilst France's is wearing bright red and blue – and allows himself a few moments of preening. Then he's all business again, "Did you get all your supplies? Will you be able to do the same?"

Australia shakes his head, "We got the supplies on beach, but 'fraid not. The cliffs are too steep. Every bloke's gonna hafta make his own tucker."

England tinkers with a small kettle, "It should be easy for you; you live in the country. You're used to making your own food."

A minute later he's offering Australia a fancy cup and he takes it with a small murmur of gratitude. He hastily swallows a steaming gulp. Australia's eyes prickle, his throat burns, but he appreciates the sensation – it's better than the ache of a throat dried by the cool air outside.

They bask in blissful quiet (though it's not too quiet; he can still hear the shells exploding on the beach). But Australia's got to leave soon – the troops already on site will need reinforcement as soon as possible.

"Horsemen took a trench yesterday." He says with a fond smile, his mind wandering to his favourite horse, Barb. She ought to be happy; standing in a stable eating hay until her heart's content.

The older nation smiles (it's almost completely concealed by his cup), "I told you they'd be fine without their horses."

Australia laughs, "I just hope Egypt's taking good care of 'em! Those stupid animals are a fussy lot. Worse than you when it comes to a cuppa." He grins playfully at the Englishmen and raises his glass.

England rolls his eyes, "Git." He mumbles with an almost fond tone.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

An unforgiving sun glares down on them, burning his skin and blinding his eyes. Australia's constantly rubbing them and wiping the sweat gathering around his face. It doesn't help that the cream sand he's standing on reflects it as well as any mirror.

It's been 23 days since they'd arrived and Australia can feel exhaustion and hunger balance like lead weights on both his shoulders – this is nothing like the adventure and glory England had described.

He misses home, misses Skippy, and misses swearing at the dingos for taking his chooks. The flies are familiar though, as he salutes throughout the day. Their numbers never seem to fall (they're like Turkey's mob that way – replacing their fallen with another man, no matter how many he swats down). No Man's Land is a breeding ground for them and they'll spread diseases faster than an uphill bushfire. Australia's seen it done with his produce. He worries.

But Turkey's tough, Australia tells himself every morning as he peers through the scope of his periscope rifle. He's a tricky bugger with his snipers and machine guns. He won't give up and neither with he – he _can't_ , he's no wuss.

Which is why he's surprised to see a white flag waving above the Turkey's trenches. Australia has to rub at his eyes to make sure he isn't hallucinating – which is very possible, if the gaping, empty hole that is his stomach has anything to do with it.

"Australia! We mean you no harm!" Comes a ragged voice. Everything is silent – even the shelling has stopped. It's one of the strangest and scariest things the digger has heard since he's arrived.

Australia bites his lip.

"I come in peace, look, I haven't a weapon!"

Sure enough, Turkey climbs clumsily over his trench's wall and sand bags, the white flimsy, stained cloth still clutched in his hand, defenceless. His mask is a wiped with ginger, whilst his uniform is as muddy as his own – they don't need water when they're sweating like bums in the sun – and he wonders if Turkey suffers from the same uncomfortable itches as he does.

"It could be having me on…" Australia mumbles to himself. His fuzzy brows are furrowed. But he's shaking his head a second later; Turkey wouldn't gun himself down.

His head itches, his brain hurts – why are they doing this? What the hell would England think? What would England _do_? He's never done this before…

"Fuck…" Australia swears, before jumping to his feet. He calls over his shoulder, ordering his men, "If they start shooting, ya shoot. Not before."

They murmur in return.

He grabs a packet of smokes before he leaves the trench, stumbling over dead bodies before he manages to straighten himself. It feels extremely strange to be walking over No Man's Land without bullets whizzing over his head. It makes his heart ache to step over his own disfigured men. The harsh sun isn't kind to their decaying forms and the flies aren't sympathetic either.

Turkey sends him a sad smile.

"It's such a waste." He comments.

Australia nods, "Yeah."

It's awkward for a moment, as they stand in front of each other. Australia has the absurd urge to compare it to the first time he'd asked a Sheila out (he'd been little, 10, and he'd asked if she wanted to splash in the billabong out back with him) – and he scuffs his feet against the crimson ground absently.

When it's obvious Turkey isn't going to continue, Australia takes initiative.

He clears his throat, "Are ya giving it up, mate? We'll be good to ya. The pamphlet said so."

"I'm afraid not," Turkey replies, his smile broadening, "Though it sounds very tempting. Rather, I would like to bury my dead. They deserve as much."

The fact that Australia's sure he's crushing a deceased's hand with the heel of his left foot (they're body parts _everywhere_ ) as he stands there doesn't weaken the point.

"We want'a do the same. But we're gonna hafta ask the big bloke on the harbour," Australia says, "'Til then, 'ere." He hands the taller man the smokes and grins, "Truce 'til things are sorted?"

Turkey nods, "I have some sweets dugout if you'd like some?"

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Ya wouldn't happen to have any actual _grub_ in there, would ya, Johnny?"

India smiles at him as he rummages through the half empty packs his grey donkey is carrying, "Not today, Australia."

"Didn't think ya would. I'll tell ya what, mate," Australia leans in conspiratorially, "I found a couple of these washed up on the beach. Ain't fun drinking with the flies. How 'bout you drop in and we get pissed t'gether?" He draws a dirty bottle of wine from where it's hidden beneath his kit.

"I'll be sure to drop by later tonight." India whispers back.

"Just don't tell the Tommy about it. He'll have our asses!" The donkey huffs and kicks its hooves, earning a louder laugh from India. "Er, not you, mate."

They totter off soon after, leaving Australia to his digging (or bludging, as the case currently is). It's June and Turkey hasn't put up much of a fight – neither has he, he grudgingly admits – and he's already visited the Kiwi down at Cape Helles. England had mentioned something about reinforcements and a larger attack later that month and he twitchingly waits for that bloody day – at least he'd be doing what he came here to do.

He grins as he hears Turkey's call and lurches for his pack; he's got a few left overs hidden away. He takes a whiff to make sure they're not going to kill the bastard, then he leaps from the trench, his eyes bright.

"What took ya so bloody long? Bikkie?"

Turkey smiles back as he adjusts his mud stained mask, "Later, thank you. And one of our guns jammed. I was trying to fix it."

"Now, don't go doin' that." Australia chuckles and sits himself on the sandy ground.

Turkey joins him as he extracts his own lunch from his pockets.

Australia's biscuit crunches loudly when he bites it in half (he's smothered it in blackberry jam), "What're ya havin'?"

"Fruit, mostly."

"Lucky bastard."

They talk for a time - Turkey's a nice bloke when he isn't attempting to blow his head off. They split their food (Australia nearly cries with every bite of dried fruit - it tastes _so good_ to have something that isn't entirely processed in his mouth), and Australia lights a smoke for the two of them to share.

The sun's still staring down on them, but it isn't as bad as when he's in the trenches, bored, irritable or hungry. It's nice to yarn to someone that he doesn't know by the name Cockroach, Sandgroper, Crow Eater and whatever else he calls his states' men.

"Germany is visiting," Turkey says suddenly as his smoke rings dissipate, "He wanted to see how we were holding up."

"What'd ya say?" Australia asks with a raised brow, "That we're pummellin' ya stupid?" He grins, as does Turkey.

"Of course not; we're driving you into the sea."

He lets loose a barking laugh as he slaps his hand over Turkey's shoulder.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"England isn't the best at planning, is he?"

Australia raises his head from where he'd been burying his mates, his hands chapped and bleeding from the labour, his skin red raw from the sun (perhaps sunbaking hadn't been his most brilliant of ideas).

"I can see what he's trying to do. But he cannot pull it off. I know this land better than I know my own face, and I know that he knows I have the geographical advantage."

The Australian wipes the back of a tanned hand across his face and smudges the dirt that's already there. His eyes are duller than when he'd first put on his uniform. Australia isn't sure what he's supposed to say – he's not sure if he's supposed to say anything at all.

Green eyes watch as Turkey regards the dead men by their feet, piled like sandbags on top of one another. He wonders if Turkey sees what he sees; his fallen comrades: brave, loyal and passionate. He rubs vigorously at his eyes – he'd be damned if he let anyone see him cry.

Australia goes back to digging, the scrape of his shovel breaking and shifting dirt to the beat of one's final march. Scratch, scritch, _shhhhhh_ …

"Can't you see he doesn't care?"

His voice is so low Australia doesn't think he's heard Turkey at all. But the anger that's contorted the taller man's mouth isn't a figment of his imagination and he almost recoils at its appearance.

"Australia, he doesn't care! You're fighting a lost cause! You cannot win!" Suddenly Australia's arms are held in vices, and Turkey's putrid breath burns his already scarlet face, "England's superiors don't care! They sit out there on their boats or in their snug government buildings, as safe as babes in their mother's arms! They don't know what it's like here, on the battlefield! They use you as – what does he call it? – _canon fodder_. England doesn't speak up for you; according to his reports, you're campaign is going _exactly_ as planned! Your people at home – the ones you are so proud of - they don't know-!"

Australia's heard enough. It takes a mere moment for him to let go of the shovel and throw his fist at Turkey's head. They hit the ground before his bango does, kicking and punching and biting and scratching – anything so long as they can make the other _see_.

He can't retreat. England wants him here – on the front line. He hasn't a choice but to follow orders. He's sworn to fight for King and Country, until his last shilling _,_ no matter what his losses are. And, quite frankly, Australia's always been thick headed. England's told him time and time again that he doesn't know when to quit (but that's only because he'll know he'll lose when it's Australia's turn to bat). This is his time to show what he's made of and no matter what his preconceptions of war had been, he understands now and won't let it stop him.

"You fool!" He grunts as he finds his head sandwiched between Turkey's palm and the ground, "You'd sacrifice all your men for _him_?! He's the reason you're in this war! He's proven his incompetence time and time again – look at your people lying around you!"

With a bit of wiggling and a swift kick (learnt from the many crocs he's tackled), he knocks Turkey down. Soon they're grappling against the mound of rotting corpses, rolling amongst them until Australia has a knee in his back, and then Turkey receives a face full of bloodied vest.

He doesn't know when they're lips mash together for a sloppy pash, just as he can't say when he stops kicking and instead wraps a scratched and bloodied leg around Turkey's hip. But they're frotting and it feels better than anything Australia's felt in months. He's only done this with one bloke before (France, surprisingly – he hadn't thought he'd go for the overly flashy blonde – and perhaps Egypt, but he's still not sure on that). But it's been a long time and he comes like a teenager, soon after they've started. Turkey does no better.

They lay sprawled over one another, limbs tangled like two limp puppets. And once the fantastic tingling sensation subsides, Australia feels worse than he did before.

He catches Turkey's eye.

"You killed m'mates." He murmurs whilst blowing up dust. Blood dribbles from his lip.

Turkey's eyes close – one's swollen and bruised, and his cheek doesn't look much better, "You invaded my home."

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Australia slowly examines the hospital ship. It's long, quieter than the battlefield, but the stench of blood and antiseptic burns as bad as the scent of gunpowder. Beside him, Canada's stirring his meat and veggies soup – Australia's never realised just how fond of peas he is.

"You awake?"

"Hope so." He murmurs, "Smells dinkum."

Canada laughs and helps him sit up, piling pillow after plush pillow behind him. He's been violently crook for the past three days – England had finally let him evacuate and the dunny had built a worrisomely strong mateship.

"Y'look like France." He says idly, with a slur that's most definitely not caused by huge amounts of grog (unfortunately), "Y'got the same mop."

"He's one of my dads, so to speak." The blonde offers, before he sits on the bed beside him. It's funny; it almost looks as though he's wearing a nurse's uniform…

"You've got an infection." The blonde explains, "It's been going around. After a bit of rest you'll be up and at them again."

Then there's a train coming, _choo choo_ and all. Australia strains to meet the spoon and groans aloud as it slides blissfully down his throat.

Canada's eyes are vivid behind his glasses, "It's good, yeah?"

He grins, "Yeah."

This continues for a while and soon they're conversing as though they've known each other all their lives – except he's sure he's known Canada before then. Australia wonders why he hadn't remembered him (he's told it could be the infection jumbling his thoughts – that or he's taken one too many punches to the head).

He tells Canada about how England's diversionary attack would have worked if the Pom hadn't been such a dipstick, kept his head around that poncy Frenchmen and told him the right time to attack. He listens as Canada explains what it's like in Belgium – it's supposed to start snowing soon, the wavy haired man explains. Australia laughs as Canada realises he isn't joking when he says he and the white stuff aren't well acquainted (they don't meet too often and when he does see snow, its mostly from a distance). So he goes on into the ins and outs of snow for him.

Soon they're talking about their familiars. Australia tells him about Skippy, the little joey he'd left in a neighbouring bird's care.

Canada can empathise, "I write to Kumajirou whenever I can! He can't read yet, but I'm sure he can smell me all over each letter. It must comfort them to know we're alive and well."

Australia wonders if the rug rat even remembers what he smells like – he'd been awfully young when he'd left him. He would be up and hoppin' about by now.

The conversation's enjoyable, and it's only better when Australia realises he can't hear the shells as they decorate the beach from his bed. It's the most relaxed and comfortable he's been in a long time (well except when his stomach decides it doesn't like staying where it should. But Canada's there to catch it).

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Despite taking Lone Pine, Australia can't help but feel disappointment as deep down as his marrow. The attack had been a complete disaster. He's heard rumours – reliable ones, passed through the Kiwi and Johnny's ranks – both England and France are visiting Canada and his doctors.

But the surprise and sadness soon morphs to anger. He's angry at England, the utter drongo; for allowing himself to laze around for an afternoon. Turkey had _napped_ for fuck's sake! And New Zealand – at least he had the mist of late reinforcements to hide behind, though Australia doesn't understand why he didn't just attack. He feels most sorry for and angry with France though; the majority of his troops had died running headlong into machine gun fire – a weapon his superiors hadn't understood.

He manages to get away from the ruckus – having given his troops strict instructions to defend rather than attack; he'll let Turkey tire himself out before he does that (he imagines he's spewin' over this loss). But he can't get England's stupidity out of his head.

"Bloody Pom…" He mutters to himself, "As useless as tits on a bull."

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They're hidden in a muddy, abandoned trench, sitting amongst their dead and bogged in mud as deep as their ankles. It's their time for exchange (be it food, drink or the company of another warm body) and he's just had the Turk cut his hair (it'd been hanging around his shoulders).

Now Turkey's lips are chilly against his own and his beard scratches at Australia's chin. He wrenches off that annoying mask (he doubts it can get any darker, even as it sinks into the sludge) and runs his dirt caked hands over equally messy flesh. Turkey's doing the same, his calluses rubbing at the Australian's cheeks and throat.

But things seem slightly different this time – Turkey is covered with more patches of blue and violet than he's ever seen, and Australia's skin on his knees and elbows is hardly visible under the muck and blood – their shaky friendship is standing on tender ground.

He grins when they part. Turkey smiles back, like usual.

"What's had ya so rowdy over the last few days?" Australia asks as he gently pushes down Turkey's collar and licks the lighter skin there – he tastes more dirt than flesh, "Haven't been able to sleep with ya racket."

Turkey grins and sucks up Australia's ear. Australia groans with every slow lick, his breath fogging in the cool air.

"Nothing at all. Did you smoke the cigarettes?"

"Only after we had ya note translated!"

They laugh together – it feels good, like when their friendship first sprouted – and soon they're kissing again, with their hands inside each other's clothes.

"What have you got for me today?" Turkey asks as he presses his advantage and pulls Australia's shirt apart. There are dark bruises over his left breast, as though he's beat it a few too many times. Australia's on his back a moment later, with his neck arched back, "Something nice, white and cool, I hope. Just like I asked."

Australia grapples for his pack, his hand like a claw as he rakes it to him. It takes him a moment to fish out a can of bully beef.

Turkey regards him oddly. He reminds Australia of a befuddled Kookaburra, perched on his thighs as he is. Australia stares quizzically back as the Turk takes the silver can, turns it over in his hand once, twice and once again. He meets the Australian's green eyes with a hard stare.

"Bully beef non!"

His words are like a stamp of failure.

Australia ransacks his pack, searching in its deepest, darkest recesses. He sighs with contentment when he finds his good biscuits and jam, the ones he was saving for a special occasion.

"Mate, this is all I got."

Turkey doesn't take much time inspecting them. Instead he stands, his head reaching above the sandbags, "We're finished." He states. Before he stomps off – it's stupid, if it's about the food, but Australia isn't sure that's it – not exactly.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

England gives Australia orders to cease his friendship with the enemy. They are the _enemy_ he stresses. He sounds like he did when he used to tell him off when Australia was a child.

Then England lectures him about enemies and friendship and 'doing _it_ on a battlefield? Are you completely out of your mind!?' a mere hour later. Australia doesn't want to know who dobbed him in.

But he will – it's not like they have a healthy kinship – just after he gets his knife back.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rain comes – chills them to the bone, even Tommy, in his homey dugout – and barely leaves. The trenches are worse than the grubby paddocks he lets his cows wade through back home. For one, there is no grass – just brown and red and shit. The air fogs with his every breath and it's cold. So very, very cold.

"Fucking England…" He says through chattering teeth, "What the hell is he doin'? Knittin' our socks!?"

He looks up from his notes – he sends letters home, careful to tell his bosses that everything's going well (the censors won't let him, even if attempts otherwise) – at his mates, shivering and walking around aimlessly, frantic in their struggle to warm up. He finds himself standing and stumbling around too. He eggs them on, jokes with them, insults the Turks and England (nothing serious; Turkey really does have a white ass), and slaps a few shoulders.

A few days later it's snowing and Australia can't stop his lips from quirking up at their corners, reaching up for his eyes.

"Bloody oath! Snow!" He breathes with a burst of white.

He can't remember the last time he'd seen it – he'd too busy with his droving and farming and fishing to go anywhere near the Blue Mountains before the war, but he's got it on his to do list now.

He catches it in his hand and when that takes too long, he rounds up what he can and squeezes it together with some dirt. His fingers quickly numb, but it's worth it as he eyes an empty rum bottle and pegs it at it. He doesn't entirely get it, but the bottle rocks and wobbles before crashing to the ground. He does it again, and again – soon he's hitting them dead centre.

"Australia, you're supposed to be fighting!"

Australia can't bring himself to be cranky as England strides towards him, spewin' about this and that and another thing (not that the Pom can talk; Australia's seen him sneak a few extra bottles of grog some nights). Instead, he gathers dirt and snow and hurriedly pats it together – it's not the best craftsmanship, but it'll do.

"Australia, wait, what are you – no! It's cold enough – I just got dry – Australia!!"

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Tired of the snow already?" England asks, but he doesn't have the energy to put any feeling behind it. He curls himself up tighter, so that each of his cheeks is resting against a knee. They're pink, and his nose and lips blue. He blows into his shuddering hands as the sheet falls back to its place, blocking the door.

"We're freezing our balls off. Get ya arse into gear and fuckin' get us our winter kits." Australia grouses irritably.

England's huddled in all his thin shirt, on his bed with a blanket wrapped as many times as humanly possible around him. His teeth are chattering against the delicate porcelain he's drinking from. Australia desperately clings to his own cup as he puts the kettle down – it's the warmest his hands have felt in days.

A sigh filters from his chapped lips as he seats himself beside his brother. Despite their both freezing, there's a comforting warmth emanating from him, one that makes Australia edge just a _little_ closer. They remain silent for a few long moments, enjoying the closest thing to peace they can experience in this icy hellhole (the whistle-BOOM of shells is like a familiar melody to their numb ears).

Australia tucks his frigid fingers into his armpits. He blinks with bewilderment when a blanket is held up to his face, making him go cross-eyed.

"Here," England whispers, with his face turned in the opposite direction, "It's cold."

Australia pushes and pulls the material until they're both tucked in snugly. He and England are squashed together now.

"Thanks."

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"We're evacuating." England states with an exhausted and relieved finality – he's had it tough too since his battleships sailed off, "My bosses have agreed to it."

Australia immediately digs his pinkies into his ears and twists roughly. Surely he's hearing wrong – not that he doesn't want to go home – surely England isn't saying their _giving up_?

"It's not as bad as you think it is," England continues – he knows him so well, "Turkey hasn't beaten us."

Australia still finds it uncomfortable to hear.

"We'll be leaving in ten days. Act normally."

He certainly tries.

Later that day he's walking mules in circles for Turkey's eyes. Tessy's a fine donkey. Stubborn 'til the end and Australia has to start carrying watering cans when she refuses to move another step (after fifty rounds he isn't surprised). He talks to India, visits New Zealand – the bloody bastard's been carving again, and it looks as ace as France's breakfast too – and lets France talk him into sharing a glass or two of plonk with him (he's still suffering from the surprise of England's letting him ship it out here).

The next day he enjoys a couple of rounds of test cricket before he meets England down by the stores. He's set to the task of tucking dry hay into crevices around and pouring petrol over the supplies they won't need. It's a waste in Australia's eyes, but he doesn't want Turkey getting any comfort from it any more than England does.

It's their next task that's the hardest.

"We have to destroy the rum."

"Is this necessary?" Australia asks as he eyes the stacks and stacks of wooden crates his diggers are moving to the beach, "It's a crime, Tommy, _a crime_. Ya know it is! We could drink it all. Do it as cunning as a dunny rats. Ya bosses would be non-the wiser!"

England takes a moment longer to stare at the crates, his own emerald eyes big and near watery with the oncoming loss. Australia knows his pain, knows it from the very bottom of his weeping heart.

"We have very strict orders…" England says. Australia's certain it's more to steady himself.

They eventually agree to a compromise (after many failed attempts of doing it alone), and seize an end of a box each. They both lift it, their hearts heavier than the rum in their arms as they step away and stare straight into each other's eyes. Both sets of their bushy brows are furrowed, just as both of them are frowning.

"On the count of three," England says sombrely.

The splintering crack of wood and sharp shattering of glass is more heart-wrenching than any shell they've heard go off.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Australia triple checks his self firing rifles, makes sure his long-lit fuses are set up right and cleans the path that takes him down to the beach, marking it with salt and white stones (it hasn't snowed in some time, it's obvious in the dark). He's wrapped in several layers of clothing (winter ones, finally), his cheeks are pink and he's smiling sadly as he straightens the sand bags around each of his piers.

After eight months, he's leaving – England's got his ship ready to come in as soon as the sun falls.

He hardly recognises himself. Where he'd once been plumper and strong muscle, he's now skeletal and saggy. It scares him. He wants to go home. He can barely wait until he steps upon his Lucky Land.

But he's not going straight home, not like he'd first thought; England's arranged for him to head to the Western Front. He doesn't quite know what he feels.

He's glad. He hasn't been beaten; he's being sent somewhere where he'll be of use, instead of being bogged down in snow and mud and drudgery. He wants to show what he's made of, wants to do his bit in this war.

But it's on that same note that he loathes heading away from one war zone (whilst leaving his fallen mates behind) to head to another. Australia's not stupid, he knows that if war's one way in one place there's a Buckley's chance in it being any better somewhere else (especially if it snows more than it has here, like Canada had told him).

He watches the sink into the sea, his nerves jittery with every inch submerged. His men are still firing rifles and throwing bombs – the last few they will whilst here – and he swears he can hear England pacing as he waits to sail in.

Australia says a prayer for his diggers – both buried and lying for all to see. He doesn't want to leave them, but he's going to have to (he's already gone through their dugouts and collected their treasures. He's sure their families will want them back).

All too soon the stage is set; the moon is out, there are few clouds and Australia's decked in all the clothes he owns. He slings his kit over his shoulder, fixes his hat to his head and checks his precautions again – for the last time.

He can see England's ship coming in if he squints, as he makes his way down the cliff side; he's gotten pretty good at it, he hardly stumbles. He makes sure the few supplies he's taking with him are all on the piers, ready to be loaded and says hooroo to Tess and her peers. He hopes to bring her back home if she's still alive after the war; she deserves some peace and quiet.

He swears he's tin-arsed when a shell barely misses him (he supposes that won't stop until he's well out to sea), a few minutes before England's boots shuffle up the pier. Australia's crouched by the water and is letting it lap at his boots.

"Are you ready?" England's tinted an icy blue from the moon's light.

"Yeah."

They're quick and efficient. It takes barely three hours to get all his supplies on deck and his troops – some are missing, that were alive, present and accounted for earlier that arvo – on the vessel.

Australia turns green a few minutes after they push off and the violent rocking of the ship (caused by stray shells crashing into the water) is his only concern. But his grin widens as the beach grows smaller and smaller.

Soon he's on the helm, with England by his side and a bottle of rum between them. Seasickness be damned – if he's going to spew, he'd rather it be with something he'd enjoyed swallowing in his stomach.

"I thought you'd had me destroy all the grog." He half slurs – from exhaustion rather than intoxication – he hadn't realised just how stuffed he is.

England looks the other way and barks out, "Of course you did! I brought this with me."

They ignore the fact that England is one of the worst fibbers they both know.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Australia doesn't believe in fate. He takes life one day at a time, relying more on his hands than the predictions of stars, omens and tea leaves. Yet he can't help but smile at the funny way some things turn out. It's as though – if they do exist – Lady Fate and Duke Destiny are having a laugh at their expense.

When he'd sat in that sodding trench, watching Turkey walk away (he sometimes still wonders about that – he takes it as a sign he isn't pissed enough), he hadn't seen a very bright future for their strained and (at the time) stale friendship. He looks down to his left and eyes the little grey gravestones he's come to visit – his and Turkey's men – their sons.

The dawn service had been as sombre as the years before it, but Australia's glad to see the turn out growing rather than shrinking as it had during the few years after his time on Vietnam's veranda. He thought he'd seen a few of England and France's people – though his outnumber them easily – as well. The assembly is deafeningly silent as the bugle trumpets with the first slithers of gold and scarlet sunlight. The sky's purple with them.

Throughout the service, Turkey had stood at the back as his tradition speaks of, with his now pristine mask and a small, sad smile in place – he has his own men to mourn and they both prefer to do that alone.

They meet as the crowds dissipate.

They walk slowly, down the ridge, through shrubbery – Australia's forever tugging his jacket out of its grubby claws – before they trek across North Beach to Anzac Cove. They don't talk much; a few words here and there; they don't feel the need for it.

Soon they're standing in front of Anzac Cove's sign. The pale cream slab is covered with poppies, and Australia feels his eyes prickle once more (though he doesn't cry, not like he had when he'd first seen it erected).

54 years later, no one would guess that a battle had taken place on the peaceful beach to his left. Not if they'd just stood there and looked. The beach appears as they did when Australia first came – quiet, clean, almost pretty. Upon closer inspection, he finds that the trenches are missing, covered with pale sand and bushes that stand in course clumps all over the hillside.

His skin erupts with goosebumps. The eeriest aspect is by far the silence. No matter how many times Australia visits, he can't shake it – there should be more noise; murmuring, a donkey's call, a ship's hoot – anything, if it will drive the quiet away.

The sun is still rising – it's now casting a golden white silhouette over the calm water. His chest is hurting again, with sadness and pride. He turns away from the sight, and regards the regally dressed man beside him.

"Would ya like ta join me for a cuppa, Johnny?"

"I bought new coffee beans just for the occasion." Turkey beams and gestures to the road, "My place or yours?"

"It's my turn, mate. And d'ya mean that muck you can stand a spoon in?"

"The very same."

Turkey chuckles as Australia cringes and his face contorts as though he's sucking on a lemon. Trust the Turk to wave his disgusting coffee in front of his nose – after that incident a few years back he's been scarred for life. Australia hasn't learnt from it either; no doubt he'll pour a few extra spoons of sugar in his cup, stir, glare, gulp and try again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually written a few years ago for ANZAC Day. I'm still stupidly proud of it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed~ 
> 
>  
> 
> Notes are here.


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